


Dancing Boys

by rilla



Category: Billy Elliot (2000)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:solvent90
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilla/pseuds/rilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This is everything.' Billy, the town's golden boy, returns home, and Michael's there waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Boys

When Billy comes home, there's a massive party.

 

The thing is, Michael hasn't seen him in _years_. For the first couple of months he sort of avoided him whenever he came home, feeling a bit awkward about his old best mate who'd seen him wearing ladies' clothes and kissed him on the cheek and gone away to London to be a dancer. And then his mam found out that his dad sometimes wore her clothes (although she'd told Michael just that they'd fallen out of love which was just bollocks) so they moved away to Wales and lived with his auntie until his mam got a job, working in Woolworths. And then things had gone on fine, just like home but with a bit more rain and money.

 

He hasn't gone back to where he still regards as home very often, though. He's got relatives living there, and old friends, so often over the years his mam went to visit her sister and Michael and his sister went with her. Over time the visits gradually wore thin, though, and petered off, and they never seemed to coincide with Billy's visits home.

 

To begin with, he and Billy wrote letters, letters which at the age of eighteen Michael still has, all stuffed together in a big brown envelope in the box he keeps on the top of his wardrobe that's full of important things - or at least, will be, one day. It has the first love letter he ever received in it, from a lad he met one windy weekend in Cardiff, and his O-level certificates, which came out better than anyone expected (least of all him), and boring old crap like his birth certificate. One day he's going to send off for a passport too, and then that'll be kept there as well.

 

But the letters, like the visits home to Durham, died away and eventually ended. Michael's still not sure if it had been him or Billy who wrote the last letter. They were getting shorter and shorter, more slapdash as Billy made new friends and put a new life together, and thinking about it now that was alright, it was natural that they'd not be as good friends when they got older and that they wouldn't see each other.

 

So Michael's moved on, with a slight wistful thought about Billy sometimes, when he sees a bit of dancing on the telly or hears fancy music on the radio. He wonders what he's doing and who he's with and if he's happy, and meanwhile he's got on with his life. He stopped dressing up in his sister's clothes after a bit, because for a start he had an abrupt growth spurt when he was thirteen that meant his shoulders'd never fit into her dresses without stretching them, and also because in Wales he met a lad whose mam had worked in the theatre in London. He thought that putting on makeup was a bit weird but nothing to be bothered about, and nor was wearing girls' clothes. One night when they were sixteen, for a laugh, the two of them dressed up as the prettiest girls they could manage and got honked at by cars six times just walking down the main road to the train station.

 

Michael's learned about makeup. He learned about beauty, what makes you beautiful, learned that there's no point in putting much foundation on perfect firm eighteen-year-old skin but that a bit of eyeliner makes anyone look more awake and alert than they did five seconds before. When he left school when he was sixteen he got a job working backstage at a theatre - it's just a little shitty place, nothing to boast about, but he takes care of the costumes and does the makeup and he's good at it. And he meets other lads like him and gets home late with purple marks on his neck that make his sister hoot with laughter and his mam frown at him reprovingly.

 

So life's good. It isn't often that he thinks about the buts and the what ifs, not often that he thinks about his old life up north where the weather's colder and the people brisker; but every now and then, when he sees the end of a boxing match on telly, or a little boy wearing a parka with a fur-lined hood, and especially when it snows, he thinks of his old friend Billy, the dancing boy.

 

And now here he is, back in time for Billy Elliot's grand homecoming. Jackie and Tony Elliot have hired out the social club hall, and apparently it's all decked out with banners and balloons and everything. Michael bets it looked like shite but the thought's there, and Billy was never that perceptive about stuff like that anyway. But then again he's been to London now, he's gone to ballet school and things are probably different. He's probably changed. Michael's alright with that. Michael has to be alright with that.

 

It's a bit of a coincidence that he's visiting his aunt that weekend. Or - well, the date's been sort of frothing around in the back of Michael's head when he thinks about the dreaded weekend that he has to visit his old home in order to be respectful to his old relatives, and so he just thought, sod it - he'd go home the same weekend that Billy did. From what Michael understands Billy's now a proper fully-trained ballet dancer, able to go and dance in ballets at proper theatres in London, and he probably will do and all. Michael's planning to go and see him, when his name's up in lights. Billy Elliot, ruling London's West End.

 

Everington's basically how he remembers it. Small houses, the scratchiness of coal dust floating in the air. The mines haven't closed yet but he hears it's a close thing. But for now it's all celebration; the town golden boy's coming home, flush with the success of seven years at ballet school and the glory of talent shining out of his fingertips and the town's going to raise him above its shoulders.

 

*

 

When Michael sees Jackie and Tony for the first time they greet him warmly but with some trepidation. This is possibly due to the fact that Michael has kohl streaked around his eyes, something that's commonplace to him at home but possibly not elsewhere. Where he lives with his mam and sister he's used to being known as a bit of an oddball; in Everington they haven't quite got it yet and he just seems like a bit of a poof. He's that too, of course, but he does prefer it if people don't actually _mention_ it - it's only polite after all.

 

He has an awkward conversation with Tony; Jackie's bustled away to make sure the 'Welcome home Billy!' (without a comma) sign is hung just right, and Tony's left talking to him, probably thinking of excuses not to, but Michael doesn't really mind.

 

"So it's nice to see you back here," Tony says with forced jolliness. He's a nice lad, Billy's brother; Michael never particularly minded him. He used to give Michael all the latest news about Billy when he still lived almost opposite them. But he's a bit uncomfortable around a lad wearing eye makeup, and that in turn makes Michael almost wish he'd chosen not to wear it. But it looks nice and he feels good so he offers Tony a wide smile in return.

 

"It's wicked to be back," he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, and hopes vaguely that that wasn't too feminine an action because Tony's looking at him as if he just pulled off his head and revealed that he was a Dalek.

 

"Excellent, man, excellent." Tony looks around, clearly wanting something to do, anything, to get him away from this weird lad who wears makeup and too-tight jeans. "Listen, I've got to sort out the bar for this evening but I'll see you later on, yeah?"

 

Michael nods and they say their goodbyes; nothing too effusive of course, in case Tony catches the homosexuality disease. Michael doesn't blame him for shying away a bit, it's not like gay people are common up here, and even though he does have a ballet dancer as a brother, aforementioned ballet dancer is probably the straightest ballet dancer in the world so it doesn't make much difference.

 

Tony turns away and begins to stride towards the bar in the corner; halfway there he turns and says over his shoulder, "Hey, Michael, lad, Billy's looking forward to seeing you," and a strange sort of thrill runs through Michael's stomach.

 

*

 

It'd be a bit bloody pathetic if Michael confessed to still fancying Billy but sadly enough it's true. It's just - the image of him, the memory of him, this straight boy who shouted and swore and raged and accepted Michael for the poof he was, girls' clothes and lipstick and all. Michael's not ashamed to admit that he was a little bit in love with Billy, way back then; he is a little ashamed, though, to find that that little bit of love still resides somewhere inside of him. Maybe he should have moved on better, but he's moved on the best he could and if there's a bit of residual affection then that's life. You always stay a little bit attached to your first love, he thinks. That's just the way things go.

 

*

 

Michael's wearing his best top. How sad is that? A black polo neck jumper that makes him look thin but not overly so, with jeans. He's got a bit of black on around his eyes and he checked his hair five times before he went out. Five. Times. He is a sad fuck, clearly. But he's eighteen and nervous, because he's about to see a boy who once mattered very much to him for the first time in six years.

 

Billy isn't actually at the hall yet. Michael isn't early or anything; clearly Billy's just late because he's like that, maybe because it's his party for leaving school, for being a fully trained dancer. _Dancing boy_. Michael remembers that day like it was yesterday.

 

He wanders over to the bar, gets himself a beer, and is about to choose a seat to settle into when there's a surge of noise and everyone crushes over to the main entrance. For a second Michael's dizzy. _He's here. He's arrived_. He grips onto the back of his chair and onto his beer and hopes for the best.

 

*

 

He doesn't get to actually speak to Billy for a while. Billy's too busy being sociable, gracious, moving among people and talking to them with a lot less awkwardness than Michael's used to seeing from him, once upon a time, way back when. He moves beautifully; his back's straight, his posture relaxed but sort of poised at the same time. He really is a dancer, Michael realises vaguely, almost transfixed just by the way Billy walks.

 

He wonders if Billy will turn. He wonders if Billy will look at him, if it'll be awkward, if their eyes will meet only for Billy to look away again.

 

Then Billy's head turns; his gaze meets Michael's. And then, in a way that brings a flash of total joy to Michael, his eyes widen and a huge, genuine smile dawns across his face, and he bounds across the room towards Michael. And arms are clinging, hands pushing into hard muscles on backs, and they are enfolded in each other's arms, the simple pure happiness of two best friends reuniting lighting up the room, and Michael's face is going to crack from this stupid fucking smile.

 

*

 

It's a great party. There's dancing. Lots of dancing as a matter of fact. Drunken dancing largely, and there's Mrs Wilkinson dancing over with Billy's dad and Billy dancing with Mrs Wilkinson's daughter and Michael's just sort of standing on the sidelines, watching. He's not drunk enough to dance, yet; he doesn't want to get completely wankered or anything and act like a prick, when his best friend, taller and handsomer and more beautiful, is back from London and Michael's home for a night. It's a one night only performance, this one, this watching and dancing and longing. There are mutterings though, ones that make Michael uncomfortable, and eyes on him. He doesn't want to dance and join in only to be judged on his clothes and his kohl; surely there's at least a bit more to him than being queer.

 

He only looks away for a second before there's a figure at his side. Billy, of course, his hair damp at the temples and sticking up in a way that's totally not like a ballet dancer, a grin plastered on his face. "Michael! Come on, dance with me, man!"

 

"You've seen me dance, Billy. I'll embarrass myself." Billy has taken hold of his hand and Michael holds back still, eyes on Billy's; a slight twitch of Billy's lips, cajoling and persuasive and teasing and Michael's giving in, allowing himself to be drawn out onto the dance floor to move to music that's outdated and nothing like anything from Michael's clubs and Billy's performances, but music nonetheless.

 

He moves with Billy; they aren't touching, just sort of moving in complementary directions. Billy's more graceful than anyone else there, although Michael thinks that probably his ballet training doesn't match the slightly weird, overly twangy music. There's a couple just behind them that he doesn't recognise and just as he's beginning to relax he hears the word `poofs' said, very quietly, but just loud enough for him to hear; he turns, annoyed, a bit upset and they're looking in another direction. He doesn't think Billy's close enough to have heard, and he's glad.

 

Regardless, when the song's finished he breaks away from Billy, making for the gents. When he gets there he wets a bit of loo roll, starts wiping at the black before dropping the tissue into the sink, staring at his reflection. Not bad looking. Not as even-featured as Billy; almost feminine features, soft, full lips. Fuck.

 

And then there's footsteps. Of course it's Billy, frowning a bit as he walks in, coming up to stand behind Michael. "What's wrong with you, sulker?" he asks breezily. Billy's an inch taller than Michael now and broader too, all wide shoulders and narrow hips. He actually looks like a dancer, with his serious-featured face and broad chest.

 

"I shouldn't have worn this shit," Michael says crossly to the mirror. "It looks fuckin' crap, and people are staring at me."

 

Billy frowns slightly, forehead creasing in a way that's almost painfully familiar. "I think you look wicked, man," he says, completely honestly. He raises a hand, swipes a lock of hair off Michael's forehead and ruins the moment by smiling suddenly. "You've got dead pretty eyes! Like a girl's, a bit."

 

Michael draws back, a little defensively, and Billy seems to sense it, saying, "Oh, hey, wait a second. About the girl bit - not girly or poofy or anything. I just thought you'd like-" He spreads his hands, saying silently, _considering the girls' clothes, considering the makeup_. "It was a compliment."

 

"Yeah, I know," Michael says. Somewhere along the lines Billy's caught onto his wrist and they're quiet for a moment before Billy clears his throat and releases Michael.

 

"We'd better be getting back then."

 

"Yeah," Michael agrees, and doesn't want to.

 

*

 

Everyone's completely fucked by half eleven. Slurring and bleary and laughing too much, and ever since they danced together Michael and Billy have been at each other's sides all evening. It's more than Michael expected, too much even. It's overwhelming, to think of what goodbye might mean at the end of the night.

 

He and Billy aren't too pissed - just slightly giddy, merry. They've been spending most of their time dancing and talking, catching up. Michael learns that Billy had a girlfriend for a year but they broke up six months ago, and that his dream is to dance in Swan Lake, and that when he's in London he misses grass. Not the illegal substance but the green stuff; he misses meadows, he says, and in a more sombre voice informs Michael that he's always a bit sad not to be able to clean up his mam's grave as much as he'd like to. Michael explains to Billy the exact circumstances of his parents' split, and tells him about dressing up in drag and how much fun it is and makes him promise to try it some time, and about how he thinks the theatre he works in might be haunted. He makes Billy promise to dance there some time. They make a lot of promises that Michael doesn't think they'll be able to keep, but that's alright because living for the day is what eighteen year olds are supposed to do, and today is _the_ day.

 

*

 

They leave at half twelve, Billy bidding everyone goodbye and thanking them all, which takes forty-five minutes. Michael's aunt's house is on Billy's old road so they walk together and halt at the top of the road, on the hill, where there's a bench. They sit and Billy pulls out rolling papers and a plastic bag of tobacco.

 

"I thought you were supposed to be a honed athlete!" Michael says, reproving and laughing, his thigh and hip warmly up against Billy's.

 

"Fuck off," Billy says briskly, smiling. "We've all got our vices." His tongue darts out to lick the paper and when he's finished he holds the cigarette out to Michael. "Here y'are."

 

Michael takes it, obediently, even though he doesn't usually smoke rollups. He lights it and then a moment later there's the click of Billy's lighter next to him. Companionable silence as they both exhale. It's a warm night, pleasant, and Billy's stretching out, his silhouette all silver inked against the dark night sky. He's all hard muscle now, boyhood resolutely behind him in a way that Michael's lanky frame lacks. His hair's no longer dull brown in the lamplight but bronze, his face straight-nosed and clear-eyed but still with a bit of that old stubbornness left there that Michael recognises so well. "Shit, man," he says, lazily, smoke escaping from between his lips. "It's so clear here at night. In London, right, you never get to see the stars. It's different here. I always forget and then I remember when I get home. In London there's too much shit in the sky to see the stars properly. It's a bit sad."

 

"D'you miss it here?"

 

Billy shrugs. "A bit." He glances at Michael. "D'you?"

 

"I miss bits of being here," Michael says, meaning, I miss you, and Billy seems to know what he means because he falls silent and moves slightly closer, and it takes a while before conversation starts back up again. Billy almost trips over a paving slab when he stands up and Michael laughs, and then it's all go from there.

 

*

 

They're still laughing about something shite and pointless when they get to Michael's door, Billy's face creased in that old familiar smile. Michael's laugh fades away somehow and there's silence for a bit as they regard each other, a bit of solemnity creeping into things.

 

"Well," Billy says, and glances up at the window. "It's dark. No one home?"

 

"My aunt's got a boyfriend so she'll be staying there," Michael explains, and rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' nasty, if you ask me. She's too old to have sex."

 

Billy snorts with genuine laughter, head tipping back as he pretends to shudder with revulsion. "When I'm that old I'm never going to fuck again, promise. So I don't disgust the world!"

 

The thought of Billy having sex at all with anyone is not an idea that appeals to Michael - unless he's the person he's having it with, which is doubtful to say the least. He laughs anyway though. There's Billy smiling in front of him, familiar and strange and wonderful; the only passable emotion to feel is joy. "You're a bloody liar!"

 

"So sue me!" Billy's still laughing and they're both laughing again now before sobering again in a moment. "Is this where we say good night?" Billy asks, voice more sombre and quiet.

 

"Goodbye, even," Michael agrees, meeting Billy's eyes, seeing something questioning and hesitant there. His stomach leaps in a way that's both awful and amazing at the same time.

 

"I don't want to say goodbye." Billy looks away, draws a hesitant breath. Then his hand's on the lapel of Michael's jacket and Michael's taking a breath as Billy's face moves towards his. The scratch of stubble - something that was certainly never the case six years ago - and then the softness of lips against his cheek. "Good night, Michael," Billy says against his skin. His voice is slightly croaky; not husky, not sexy; just as though he can't quite speak properly. Like he's overcome.

 

There's enough time only for Michael for whisper, "Night, dancing boy," before Billy's hand tightens on his lapel. Michael's eyes flutter shut and he exhales shakily; there are lips moving across his cheek, delicate in the way that he imagines Billy's glissades to be. Then Billy's lips are on his, Michael's entire body almost shaking with anticipation. Soft, sweet kisses, and then more, gripping of each other, exploring, clutching, Billy's hands sliding up Michael's jacket and then up his top, warm hands on warmer skin and Michael gasps against Billy's lips.

 

"Come in," he murmurs. "Come up."

 

Billy nods, eyes wide and starry, a nervous smile flitting across his lips, and follows Michael inside.

 

*

 

Seven years later Michael's twenty-five and Billy's the danseur in Swan Lake. Jackie and Tony squeeze in late and Michael reintroduces himself to them; he's there with his best friend, an old boyfriend who went from lover to friend over the course of a few years. The sheer beauty of the performance is stunning; the arch of Billy's body, the rise and fall of his feet, his legs. It's beautiful and powerful and terrifying in its beauty and power and Michael is so very, very spellbound.

 

It's a million miles away from the last time he saw Billy, on that morning when they were eighteen and woke up together with Billy taking up all the bed and Michael taking up all the blankets. There were sleepy morning kisses and sex and breakfast and more sex, and then a walk to the graveyard, where Michael stood respectively to the side until Billy dragged him by the hand to his mother's grave, Jenny Elliot, and told Michael a few funny things she'd done when he was little. And finally Michael had had to catch his train home.

 

They've been through a lot since then. There've been times when they were inseparable and times when their lives simply didn't match up, times when they walked around hand in hand and times when they were afraid to cross the line from friends to lovers again.

 

Michael received two tickets to the opening night of Swan Lake in the post a week ago, with a note scrawled in familiar handwriting: _Hope you can make it_. There was no signature. Despite the fact that they haven't had time to see each other in six months, Billy knows him that well, at least.

 

*

 

When the performance is over Michael takes a deep breath and has to blink a tear away. He opens the programme; searches for Billy's page with shaking hands. Underneath Billy's photograph, his long list of professional credits, there is a single line:

_Billy would like to dedicate his performance to Michael Caffrey, his other half._

 

Michael draws a deep breath and shuts the programme.

 

*

 

"Who'd you come with?" Billy asks, half smiling. There's a dark crest down his face, the rest of it painted white. It was easy to get backstage; Michael just spoke to one of the ushers who spoke to someone else and in no time at all he was backstage, looking into Billy's wide eyes.

 

Michael moves to the dressing table, out of habit starts looking for makeup remover. "A friend," he says, searching for cotton pads and eventually finding them

 

"No one - special," Billy says, after a moment, with a little difficulty.

 

"Spit it out, man! Not a boyfriend or anything," Michael confirms, turning with a smile, armed with a cotton pad covered in makeup remover. "Can I-"

 

"Yeah. Course." Billy closes his eyes, a slight smile on his lips and Michael's pretty sure that he can detect relief.

 

Carefully, Michael cleans off the right side of Billy's face, and then the left. He leaves the black streak down his nose for last, and as he wipes that off Billy sighs, warm breath on Michael's arm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "You saw the programme?" he asks, a little awkwardly.

 

"Yeah." Michael inclines his head despite the fact that Billy can't see it, his stomach jogging with nerves.

 

"I just thought-"

 

"Don't open your eyes."

 

"All right. I just thought, maybe it's time to - make it something. I didn't mean other half like at those cheesy sodding dinner parties, like oh hello, I'm Billy and this is my other half, not like that. Just like - you're my other bit. My right arm." He lefts out a shuddering breath.

 

Michael's hand has stilled. He lowers the cotton pad; bends down and presses a kiss to Billy's temple and then to the corner of his eyebrow. "Yeah."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yeah. You know what I mean."

 

Billy opens his eyes, and they`re wide, unclouded by worry, full of joy. There's creamy make up remover clogged on his eyelashes and gently Michael runs a finger across them to remove it, the simple action feeling oddly intimate. He reaches down to take his hand, then. Billy's hand, his Billy's. His first friend, his best friend, his lover, his dancing boy. Two Northern boys standing in a dressing room in the south, with one of their names up in lights outside. Too small for this bright world, too big to go back to their old one, stuck somewhere in transit between the two. There is very little to hold onto, but Billy's hand is firmly in Michael's. This is something. This is everything.


End file.
